ian's iron hand seized her and pushed her back into her
chair.

"I understand how much you care for this correspondence," said he, in a
more excited tone, "but you are more loving than prudent. Let me destroy
one witness which accuses you. Do you know that I have already killed a
man on account of these letters?"

"Killed!" exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, whom this word drove almost to
madness, for she could not understand its real meaning and applied it to
her lover. "Well, then, kill me too, for I lied when I said that I
repented. I do not repent! I am guilty! I deceived you! I love him and I
abhor you; I love him! kill me!"

She fell upon her knees before him and dragged herself along the floor,
striking her head upon it as if she wished to break it. Christian raised
her and seated her in the chair, in spite of her resistance. She
struggled in her husband's arms, and the only words which she uttered
were: "I love him! kill me! I love him! kill me!"

Her grief was so intense that Bergenheim really pitied her.

"You did not understand me," he said, "he is not the man I killed."

She became motionless, dumb. He left her then, from a feeling of
compassion, and returned to his seat. They remained for some time seated
in this way, one on each side of the fireplace; he, with his head leaning
against the mantel; she, crouched in her chair with her face concealed
behind her hands; only the striking of the clock interrupted this silence
and lulled their gloomy thoughts with its monotonous vibrations.

A sharp, quick sound against one of the windows interrupted this sad
scene. Clemence arose suddenly as if she had received a galvanic shock;
her frightened eyes met her husband's. He made an imperious gesture with
his hand as if to order silence, and both listened attentively and
anxiously.

The same noise was heard a second time. A rattling against the blinds was
followed by a dry, metallic sound, evidently caused by the contact of
some body against the window.

"It is some signal," said Christian in a low voice, as he looked at his
wife. "You probably know what it means."

"I do not, I swear to you," replied Clemence, her heart throbbing with a
new emotion.

"I will tell you, then; he is there and he has something to say to you.
Rise and open the window."

"Open the window?" said she, with a frightened look.

"Do what I tell you. Do you wish him to pass the night under your window,
so that the servants may see h